AFTER THE DRY SPELL
by SK McCauley
Summary: Years after the death of her daughter and subsequent dissolution of her marriage, Katherine Flannery vacations in Mexico with her band of "Ya-Ya's." When a passionate tryst with a destined stranger becomes a part of her "real world," Katherine will wonder if she's stepped into her dream life or a cosmic nightmare.
1. Chapter 1

McCauley/AFTER THE DRY SPELL

AFTER THE DRY SPELL

By S.K. McCauley

Contact Info:

susankfromva 

The Interview

"I'll just have to raise your blouse a bit, Ms. Flannery," the young woman said as she fitted the back of Katherine's skirt with a transmitter.

Katherine smiled with mischief. "That's exactly what my husband said this morning."

"I'm sure." The young woman glanced toward the wings of the stage. "I've seen the way he looks at you."

Katherine followed her line of sight then winked at the man in the wings. "Him? That's not my husband. He's my manager."

The young woman leaned a little closer, and whispered, "I don't mean to be cheeky Ms. Flannery…"

Katherine recognized her accent as being from Northern England. "Please… the cheekier, the better."

"He might be your manager, but he looks at you like he's starving and you're a carvery."

Katherine laughed. "Luckily, his hunger isn't my responsibility at present."

"You're right. It's a big day for you. We should focus on the matter at hand." The young woman picked up a small microphone. "Would you prefer the lavaliere on the collar of your shirt or sweater?"

"Which would be better? I haven't done this before."

"I'd go with the sweater. Shirt collars tend to sag about halfway through the interview."

As the young woman clipped on the mic and ran the cord to the transmitter, Katherine noted her perfume. Alien. The same scent her daughter wore. Without thinking she muttered, "My daughter would have been about your age…"

The young woman stopped and touched Katharine's shoulder. "I'm so sorry for your loss." She glanced at the floor as if looking for the right words to appear at her feet. "I've read your book, you know. Losing her must have been absolutely crushing blow. I don't know how you managed."

Katherine fought back tears. "Let's change the subject." She took a deep breath. "We don't want to ruin the makeup man's artistry, now do we?"

"Quite right." The young woman smiled, but the light of her eyes was still dim.

Katherine noticed little things like that. Always had. She told herself she'd developed the skill for her writing— one must notice the details. But, that wasn't the reason. She'd watched people her whole life; learned as a child that some of them can be dangerous. Even people… no, _especially_ people who are closet to you.

A production assistant entered. "She's ready for you, Ms. Flannery. Follow me."

Katherine addressed the young woman. "Thank you for your help… I'm sorry. I forgot to ask your name."

"Lydia."

"You're absolutely lovely, Lydia."

"That's a real compliment coming from you, Ms. Flannery. Cheers."

As Katherine followed the PA, she felt her manager fall in line behind her.

"What happened back there?"

The depth and resonance of his voice, the charm of his accent made her feel inappropriate things. "What do you mean?"

"You were nearly in tears. What did she say to you?"

Katherine couldn't hide anything from him. He'd been tuned in from the day they met. It was his job, he said, to watch her with the same vigilance that she watched everyone else. "She didn't _say _anything. It was her perfume. That's what Ali used to wear."

He stopped Katherine; made her look at him. "Are you okay?"

She nodded and took a moment to linger on his face: wide-set, dark blue eyes, full mouth, strong bone structure. _Not now Katherine. _"Let's just get through this. I'm already nervous enough knowing how personal he gets in his interviews. I don't want to be a wreck going in."

He got _that _look in his eye. "Milkshakes, puppies, balloons, long walks on the beach."

She smiled. "Are you actually listing a few of my favorite things?"

He put out a hand. "Movie reference, lead character, actress that played her. Right now."

"Sound of Music, Fraulein Maria, Julie Andrews." Katherine smacked his palm.

The PA turned back. "You have exactly 23 seconds to have your arse in the chair. I suggest you…"

Katherine and her manager locked eyes.

He said, "I reckon he doesn't know how fast you can run."

She raised an eyebrow. "It's on, Mister." She pushed her manager back and sprinted past the PA onto the stage.

Her playfulness screeched to a halt as soon as she saw the interviewer. For weeks she'd been waiting for this to sink in. It wasn't until now that she believed it. Michael "Parky" Parkinson— the legendary British talk show host, who'd interviewed the likes of John Lennon, Nelson Mandela and Mohammad Ali— wanted _her _as a guest? In Katherine's view, she was nothing more than a middle-aged, American writer with a "complex" mind and unique set of circumstances.

She stared at him, nearly gap-mouthed.

He looked up from the papers on his lap, removed reading glasses and smiled. "Ms. Flannery. Such a pleasure." He stood to greet her.

"I uh…" Just seconds ago she was running, but now her legs betrayed her. She thought of a song from "Santa Claus is Coming to Town:" put one foot in front of the other…

Parky cocked his head. "You alright?"

A stage hand called out, "We're rolling in 3,2,1…"

Red lights illuminated on several cameras.

_Think Katherine. Think. _"You must be unaware of the paralyzing affect you have on people, Mr. Parkinson." _What a stupid thing to say. So insensitive. _

He smiled and walked toward her. "I'm just as in awe of you as you seem to be of me, Ms. Flannery." He held out his hands. "My wife has not only given me permission to greet you warmly, but directed me to do so." Parky squeezed her shoulders and kissed each cheek. "We just might be your greatest fans."

Katherine shook her head in disbelief. "Just when I thought life couldn't get more surreal… I'm completely humbled, Mr Parkinson. Thank you for having me."

"Please, call me Michael. Come, sit down." He gestured toward a staged lounge area. Walking together, he continued as the cameras followed them. "I have about a million questions for you— mostly from your readers— and only another few thousand or so of mine. If you had the time I'd keep you here for the better part of the day."

Katherine tried to ignore the cameras, but wondered how she'd look on TV. No one her age should be seen in High Definition, especially with the size of the big screens available today. _Vanity, thy name is woman. _

Parky waited until Katherine was seated before sitting himself. He waved over a different PA and then addressed Katherine. "As you know, we're not live and you'll have final approval on what is aired."

The PA approached. "How can I help, Mr. Parkinson?"

"A cup of tea for me, and Ms. Flannery will have…"

"I don't suppose you have a Diet Soda?"

" Not a bother," The PA said, "I'll have to put in in a mug, if that's 't want to upset any of the advertisers."

"No problem." Katherine looked around the set and tried to focus on her manger, but the secrets of the people around her kept jumping to the fore: one of the camera men thinks his wife is having an affair. _She is. With his sister._ The mother of PA she ran past is dying of pancreatic cancer. _She'll lose the battle before Halloween. _The young woman who fitted her with the microphone wants to have a baby. _She'll have to adopt— with a different man. Chlamydia savaged her reproductive system. Her boyfriend knew he was infected, but neglected to tell her. _

The PA returned with their drinks. "Anything else I can do for either of you?" He put the mugs down on a table between them.

Katherine shook her head, then thought better of it. "Just one thing…I'd like to speak with Lydia when we're done here, if it's convenient for her."

Parky looked over his glasses at Katherine. "Based on you're work, I know better than to ask." He shuffled some papers. "Ready to get started?"

She nodded.

"How about we start with the question that was asked the most by your fans?"

Katherine knew what was coming; they wanted to know about her private life.

"Let me be more specific… your female fans." He pulled out an index card. "On your declaration page you wrote: "Some of the names have been changed to protect the innocent (and, more importantly, not so innocent) and certain events may have been created, altered, or combined for dramatic effect."

Katherine crossed her legs at the ankle."Hence the 'creative non-fiction' qualifier. I wouldn't want to get into the same trouble as James Frey… although, I don't mean to discount his writing." Katherine shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with her inane contribution to the conversation. "What I meant to say is, 'reality' is subjective. For example, we are both here, sharing a common experience, but we'll remember the details very differently. When writing SEEKER, I was more interested in the 'truth'— what some may call the essence or meaning that lingered afterward— than facts. For me, what was 'real' didn't always happen."

"Did Penn really happen?"

Katherine smiled. "Yes. He most certainly did."

"And did you fall in love with him as described in the book?"

"No, actually." Katherine felt Perky's disappointment. That's another downside to being an empath, not only can you hear other people's thoughts, but feel their feelings too. "To be perfectly honest— and at the risk of sounding completely crazy— I fell in love with him long before we ever met… several lifetimes ago."

Page 9 of 9


	2. Chapter 2

Eight years earlier…

"The Birds"

Katherine didn't need an alarm to be roused from slumber. Twice a day the _fucking birds_ pecked away at her sanity. The time of their choruses varied with the seasons, but on this frigid January morning the birds were set for 7:51. The sunset ceremony in Minneapolis would commence at 4:46 — long after her kids went back to college, and exactly one hour and fourteen minutes before she poured her first glass of Chardonnay.

The sanctity of her bed— complete with a body contour mattress, extra-warm down comforter and four feather pillows— and the brain numbing combination of alcohol, Chinese food and a Channing Tatum Moviethon should have been enough to tranquilize a bull, but soon Katherine began to hear them.

Hundreds offinches screeched from their makeshift nests built precariously on woody veins of leafless ivy that wove and clung to the eastern wall of her rented duplex. The garden that lay dormant out back— the one that was now knee deep in snow and looked like a Hitchcock film— housed even more.

Katherine opened a crusty eye and glanced at the red numbers on the digital clock. _No surprise there._ Someone stirred next to her.

Without looking she knew it was Carley. Somewhere along the line it became tradition for her daughter to crawl into her bed on her first and last night home. Katherine glanced over her shoulder. Carley was facing the windows with her favorite throw draped over her face and her wild mane of strawberry curls splayed across the pillow.

Katherine scanned the tattoo's on her daughter's left arm. The fake band-aid on her elbow was the first one she ever got. Carly was sixteen and the brother of a friend "inked her" in their kitchen with make-shift tools. Long sleeve shirts kept it hidden for a month, but luckily fair-haired girls can't take heat. The first 80 degree day led to a confession and a subsequent trip to a professional tattoo artist to clean up the mess. The others: Medusa in a bathrobe , a jellyfish containing a brain, and George Washington with a bandito mustache came a few years later— as did several others.

Katherine reached for the iPhone on her nightstand to check three things: the weather, her e-mails, and their astrological forecast.

-20 degrees, 114 professional and 54 personal e-mails, and: "Aries Girl, you're resisting letting go of something that no longer suits you. It is time to awaken to a new and higher way of thinking that will lead to success in a field that involves spreading higher truths to the world."

_Uh huh. _Spiritualwork didn't exactly pay the bills.

Carley groaned, "This place frickin' blows."

Katherine laughed. "What do you mean?"

"It's too bright upstairs to sleep, and the birds are a nightmare. I woke up dreaming they were mice with wings and I was trapped in a glass tank with only a water bottle and running wheel."

Katherine smiled. "No food?"

"That was the worst part! I was starving… as usual," she turned toward Katherine and made the throw into a turban. "And I had to wait for my mother to come home and barf worms into my mouth."

Katherine heard the door that lead to the loft open and heavy foot steps draw closer. "Is that you, Honey?"

Quin appeared in the doorway yawning and rubbing an eye. "No, it's not me. I'm just a simple farm boy looking for a plate of grub." He rubbed his stomach.

Katherine glanced at Carley, "We were just talking about mother's feeding their young."

Carley propped up on her elbows and addressed Quinn. "You'd better be very specific about what you want, and that it's served on a plate, otherwise Mom might chew up some meat and spit it into your pie hole."

He raised an eyebrow, "You don't get to bait me until I've had caffeine," then turned toward the kitchen and scratched his bum as he walked away.

"It kind of freaks the crap out of me that he's drinking coffee," Katherine said.

"You said the same thing when I came back from college for the first time and asked you to buy an espresso machine."

"I know, but that was because you don't have coffee drinking parents. With Quin, it's because he still looks like he's fifteen." Katherine remembered how guilty she felt leaving him at DePaul University in Chicago when he hadn't even turned eighteen yet.

"He's older than he looks, Mom… and I don't mean just in years. Besides, he's 5'8" now—an inch taller than you."

"And thirty-five pounds lighter." Katherine grabbed the rolls on her stomach. "God. When did I get this fat?"

"Right about the time you stop having 'marital relations'," Carley said.

Katherine looked at her. "I don't know that we're at the point in our mother/daughter relationship where we get to discuss my love life."

"That's true," she laid back and pulled her turban over her eyes. "Because there would be no content."

Katherine sat up against the headboard and crossed her legs beneath her. "My God, your dad and I broke up ten years ago. How can that be possible?"

"You haven't had sex since you were thirty-five?!" Carley propped up again. "You ain't gettin' any younger, lady."

Quin walked into the room with his coffee and sat on the end of the bed. "Has the conversation moved on from you spitting meat into my pie hole?"

"Mom needs to get laid," Carley said.

Quin took a sip of his coffee. "I think I was more comfortable with the first conversation."


	3. Chapter 3

AFTER THE DRY SPELL- Pages 13-17

The rest of the morning was a blur. All that Katherine could be sure of was: she made bacon and whole grain french toast for breakfast, washed and folded all their last minute laundry and drew embarrassing scenes on the lunch bags she packed for their eight hour ride on the Megabus bound for Chicago.

The contents didn't matter to the kids, it was their Mom's artwork on the brown paper bags that got their attention.

Quin inspected the picture Katherine drew for him. "I don't know if I'm impressed or offended."

Carley came into the kitchen rubbing her hands together. "The almighty sack-art moment." She looked to Quin, "What did you get?"

He held the artistry against his chest so Carley couldn't steal a glance. "If I'm seeing this right it's a rapper/nursery rhyme/festival combo. The setting is Soundset, rappers are performing, but for some reason Brother Ali is Humpty Dumpty, Slug's the Muffin Man and Toki Wright's the Itsy Bitsy Spider." He whipped the bag around for Carley to see.

She struck an art critique pose. "The shadowing of the bricks in the wall, the vibrancy of the blueberry's in the muffin and… dreadlocks as spider legs? Absolutely inspired." Carley pulled out her lunch bag. Following a stunned silence came the laughter that Katherine always aimed for with Carley. The: can't catch her breath, tears roll down her face, unable to stop, kind.

Quin grabbed her lunch bag and smiled. "Gossip girl meets the Last Supper. Nice one."

The phone rang. It was probably one of the "MEN," as her kids had come to call them— short for "MENopausal women… with balls of steel." Katherine preferred the term Aunties, but that was dumped as soon as they all started hot-flashing en masse. Being the youngest one in the group, by at least ten years, Katherine could do little more than provide fans for the five of them.

Quin answered the phone. "Yellow. Mr. Klein Jr., here."

Although Katherine opted to reclaim her maiden name, it had a polarizing effect when her kids used their dad's surname, like somehow they were on a team that she would never a belong to again.

She drifted to the last fight she had with Michael; the one that led to their divorce. He'd gone out to play golf that afternoon and didn't stumble in until 2:00 AM. The long absences began about six months after losing Ali. Sure, there were problems long before that. Maybe it was because Ali was the reason they got married in the first place, or maybe it had to do with the fact that Michael never loved Katherine and she knew it.

But something shifted in both of them the night the police arrived at their door with the news: Ali and three of her friends were killed in a head on collision. The driver fell asleep on the way back from a midnight joy ride to Duluth. The car careened across a grass median and ran directly into the path of a semi. The girl responsible for the accident… Ali. They were all fifteen at the time, but she was the only one with a learners permit.

Their deaths rocked the community of Minnetonka. To honor their lives, their high school of 2,872 students, held a memorial in the football stadium after the "remains" of each girl was settled. The families of the deceased were ushered to seats on a stage at the fifty yard line. Katherine remembered little more of that evening than holding Carley and Quin's hands— they were then ten and seven years old, respectively— seeing the bleachers filled to capacity, looking into the eyes of the other parents who'd lost their daughter's and knowing that the mother of the one who killed them would never be allowed the same latitude of grief and anger as them.

Katherine slipped into a kind of numbness, unsure of what to feel. It was as if guilt about the death's of the other girls robbed her of the normal stages of grief for her own. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance… none of that happened. Her emotions became sealed off, wrapped up in an airtight box and locked away in deep freeze.

People that Katherine thought were friends disappeared, others she barely knew came forward, but she and Michael were damaged beyond repair. The occasional and lack luster love-life they once shared dissipated completely.

It wasn't until the morning after Michael's last bender that Katherine knew something had to change— if not for herself, than for her living children. She didn't want them to grow up thinking that the kind of relationship she had with Michael was how love should be. Life, as they had all unfortunately learned, could be too short. Why spend it in the company of a person who looked at you with the same contempt as something stuck to the bottom of their shoe?

Maybe it was the smell of his breath that morning— something akin to pickled eggs— or the expectant way he turned into her from behind, but she just couldn't take another day of a nothingness marriage.

One touch, the same "morning after" cupping of her left breast as the only form of foreplay, that she'd felt countless times before. It was the beginning of the end. She shot out of bed and into the bathroom. Normally that was her "safe place," but for some reason he followed her. It was as if he knew something shifted.

Katherine put her hands on the counter top and looked at herself, watching as Michael wrapped his arms around her waist and said, "Do you ever think we should spend more time together?"

To which she replied, "Actually, no… I want a divorce." In the sliver of time before Michael reacted, Katherine worried about her sanity. How could she feel absolutely nothing? Surely she could scrape up a modicum of guilt, or sadness, or fear about the future, but nothing stirred in her. It was as if all the pain and loss she'd experienced from the time she was a little girl resulted in some sort of emotional lobotomy.

But then, as if in slow motion, she watched Michael's expression contort in a way that her mind couldn't absorb… like his face was made of wax and his mind was melting it. Along with the unfathomable expression, came a sound that she'd never heard before— like an animal was being tortured inside his body and dying at the base of his throat. Soon, he was on his knees, his head touching the floor, moaning as if in labor with the dead beast inside him.

Katherine felt something for Michael for the first time in nearly two years- compassion. But, she noted, that was different than love. She touched his back. "I'm so sorry."


End file.
